


Celebrity Status

by makapedia



Category: Soul Eater
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-06
Updated: 2015-05-06
Packaged: 2018-03-29 08:44:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3889906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/makapedia/pseuds/makapedia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Soul is the shittiest RA ever and Maka's a PreMed student who just wants to impress her mother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Celebrity Status

The first thing she notices, of course, is the red eyes. It’s hard for her not to; she’s used to blues and greens, browns and grays and hazels – but red is unique, and his particular shade reminds her of sin and blood. It shouldn’t draw her in as much as it does, because it’s a dangerous shade and he has tattoos up and down his arms and a lazy half-smile that lights her up like the fourth of July, but for a moment she’s slack jawed and staring at his peculiar face. It’s an interesting mix of rough and handsome.

But he’s wearing a leather jacket and she knows better – that’s Liz’s type; leather jacket wearing bad boys with wicked eyes and sharp jawlines. It comes at no surprise that it’s this boy she’s hooked around her finger, but even so, she’s impressed. He’s cute even by Maka’s warped standards. When was the last time she found somebody cute?

“Oh, hey,” she says finally. Her face feels warm and her fingers a tad too twitchy for her own good. “Did you want to… come in?”

His brows rocket past his hairline. His jaw tightens and he pauses, regards her with a sort of hesitant concern before drawing his gaze over her shoulder.

“She’ll be right back,” she clarifies. The hazy concern in his eyes makes her wish she had dressed herself a bit more before answering the door – she’d honestly thought Liz had forgotten her key (again) and made no effort to doll herself up. The simple cotton boyshorts she wears are slight but not sexy, and she’s not wearing a bra. She’s not particularly busty but nipples are still a thing and she does an awkward half shuffle to try and press herself against the door, neck peeking and craning out like a giraffe’s.

Liz’s mystery boy licks his lips. His adam’s apple bobs and Maka wonders why she stares at it so blatantly. “Listen, I–”

“It’s okay! Sorry, sorry, I’ll get changed–”

“NO,” he blurts, eyes big and face pink. She feels naked before him, small breasts firm but still capable of bounce and other unsavory things that shouldn’t happen in front of her roommate’s boyfriend slash booty call slash whatever this guy is.

She blinks at him. Waits for his answer. Tilts her head and hates herself for watching him swallow thickly.

He heaves a soothing breath and jams his hands further into the pockets of his leather jacket. He stands at an imposing height but crushes himself down into such a narrowing slouch that the PreMed in her worries for the state of his spine. Excessive thoriac kyphosis? Scoliosis? Poor posture that needs to be corrected ASAP?

“… Look. I, uh – _fuck,_  you’re cute, but I’m not a threesome kinda guy. Or a hookup kind of guy.”

It’s like she’s experiencing whiplash. She’s wearing too little clothing and she stumbles where she stands, clamps her hand around the doorknob so tightly that she think she might crush it in her palm; the man takes a step back and shakes his head.

“What?! Why would I want to sleep with my roommate’s boyfriend? What kind of girl do you think I am?!”

“Roommate’s–? I’m your  _goddamn RA!_ ”

He’s not what she expects out of an RA – he’s slouchy, he looks angry (especially now that she’s accused him of dating Liz – he shouldn’t be mad because Liz is hot) and physically, he doesn’t resemble what a typical RA looks like. But there is a mature warmth in his eyes, she supposes, and maybe she’s in the wrong here – maybe they both are.

They’re not just starting off on the wrong foot – they’re starting off on their asses, and Maka considers helping him take the foot out of his mouth if he returns the favor. 

“… … C… Can I still get changed?”

He groans and rubs the bridge of his nose. “ ** _Please_**  put some pants on, Jesus _fuck_.” 

x

The only thing worse than seeing Hot RA in his leather jacket, Maka finds, is seeing him in low riding sweatpants.

It’s three AM, she’s been working on her report for two hours, and all she wants is a candy bar to perk her up. What she doesn’t need is Hot RA Who Is Not Into Threesomes Or Hookups breathing down her neck -- or lingering by, really, but _details_ \-- while she tries to beckon the touchy vending machine down the hall into submission and giving her the Snickers bar she paid for.

His hand disappears under his shirt and rubs his stomach languidly, sluggishly, as he yawns and Maka spies an interesting trail of white hair that disappears beneath the waistband of his sweats. His shirt raises and she tries not to openly gawk at the tantalizing shape of his hipbones and fails magnificently. She needs an adult. She needs a bible. She needs her Snickers.

His free hand presses against his widening mouth, shielding his yawn at the last possible moment before he rolls his neck and sets his eyes on her. “Ah. _You._ How’s my girlfriend doing? I haven’t seen her lately.”

She taps her finger against the button for Snickers three times impatiently and wills herself to look anywhere except for his arms and the way they flex and move. He’s not overly muscular but toned, and it’s much too nice of a sight for her feeble, exhausted brain. “It’s not nice to tease underclassmen, you know.”

“Not nice to break the vending machine, either.”

He says it so loftily that she snaps her head to glare at him. “Why are you even out here?! Shouldn’t you be in bed or something, mister responsibility?”

He snorts. “I could ask you the same thing. What’re you still doing up?”

“ _Homework_ ,” she says haughtily. “What’s your excuse?”

“Insomnia.”

Not what she expects -- but he says it with such finality and curtness that she knows better than to pry, even though part of her thirsts for more. He’s an interesting package, dangerous looks topped off with a considerable job and insomnia, of all things. He’s a puzzle that she would like to crack -- but also a puzzle that she respects, a puzzle she has been in an embarrassing state of undress in front of, and a puzzle that’s more than a head taller than her and reeks of toothpaste and ritzy face wash.

He drowns her senses in hysteria and a blanket of frustrating warmth and she kicks the vending machine. At least she’s wearing pants this time. The same can’t be said for her bra situation -- there’s no real need to wear a bra when she’s studying in her room with Liz, who doesn’t flinch at the sight of her meager chest sans support.

“... You should get some sleep,” he says finally.

“I have to study,” she bristles.

“I’m _advising_ you to go to bed.”

“I have work to do.”

He narrows his eyes and leans in. There’s darkness under his eyes that she hadn’t noticed before, a murky purple shade that stains his otherwise very handsome -- albeit strange -- features. “Go to sleep,” he murmurs. “Or I’ll report you.”

She gasps, turns on the balls of her feet and slides her hands onto her slim hips. He slinks back, just a bit, and Maka’s washed with a sense of power. She can make this boy draw back, she realizes; he is intimidated by her, slight stature and all, and she’s not at all ashamed to press herself higher onto her toes and huff. “You wouldn’t dare.”

His lips purse. “Maka, go to bed.”

“How do you know my name?” she blurts.

He smiles slowly, sharp teeth peeking through the crease of his lips. He has dimples. It’s cute and entirely unfair. “I have my sources.”

“Did Liz tell you?”

His brows peak at her accusation. “Is that my girlfriend?”

He’s not just hot, she realizes, as her face flares up with heat and she slams her foot against the vending machine again -- he’s a _smart ass._ “I SAID I WAS SORRY.”

x

On the walk back to her dorm, he tells her that her name is written on the whiteboard outside her door (in her handwriting -- how could she forget something like that?) and he took a shot in the dark and guessed that she was Maka and not Liz. He says it’s her eyes that gave her away and she calls bullshit -- her half Japanese mother named her -- and Maka knows she looks more like her father’s side of the family than her mother’s. She has the Albarn eyes, wide and saturated in color, and blonde hair and a simple, sloped nose.

“I can see it when you smile,” he shrugs, as if this is conversational and not at all flattering. It means he’s been paying attention to _her_ and not just staring at her uncomfortable -- and obvious -- braless state and her knobby wrists. She pinks. “And when you get mad. Your brow creases and I can see it in your eyes.”

“When have you ever seen me smile?”

“When you laugh.”

“... When have I laughed in front of you?”

He scratches the back of his neck idly. “... Sometimes I actually do my job and look over you guys.”

She raises a brow at him and he pinks. He’s not as intimidating when he’s blushing, she finds. The tattoos and dangerous teeth pale in comparison to the pale rose shade that burns across the swell of his cheeks, a heat that makes him look less Sharkboy and more Lavagirl.

“... Only sometimes?” she quirks, lips curling.

He huffs and stuffs his hands into the pockets of his sweats. He slouches again, slouches so terribly that his shoulders droop and his back hooks and she wants to iron out his spine and lecture him but can’t, because he stops suddenly and she crashes into his arched shoulder. Apologies are exchanged and she rubs her forehead, eyes his shoulder and wonders why he’s so goddamn boney -- isn’t she supposed to be the svelte one of the two of them?

She thinks about his hipbones again and realizes that _no,_ he’s also boney, but in more interesting and enticing ways than her wrists and collarbone. She really wishes he wore higher fitting pants.

“Forget where your room is?”

She smacks his arm and he winces, rubs the area and frowns. “Don’t be a jerk.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re the one hitting people.”

Ignoring him is the best option, so she taps her knuckles against the wood of the doorframe and waits for Liz to rescue her. Her chaperone shifts his weight and smirks at her, slow and lazy, and she feels something akin to anger and frustration boil through her bones.

“Get ready to meet your girlfriend,” she deadpans.

He snorts. “Here comes the bride, all dressed in white--?”

Elizabeth Thompson stands a head taller than Maka, long honeyed hair tied up in a messy top knot and eyeliner so sharp it could cut a bitch. She answers the door in a cami and pair of panties -- a lacy black number that makes his Adam’s Apple bob and strangled noises emerge from the back of his throat -- and peaks a brow at them.

Sharp blue eyes give him a once over. She nods. “Nice.”

He manages to slouch further. “What the _fuck_ do you two have against pants?”

“Pants are leg prisons,” Liz reasons. “The better question is why are _you_ still wearing pants? Maka, I’ll get out of your way. There’s a box of condoms in my desk.”

His eyes bug out. She wonders how this keeps happening and why everyone, including him, thinks she wants to have sex with him. She doesn’t want to have sex with him. She just kind of wants to lick his tattoos a little and maybe get to know the interesting trail of hair beneath his navel that she spied earlier.

Denial isn’t just a river in Egypt.

“Liz, meet our RA,” she says, tone snippy, and Liz grins further.

“You’re banging our RA?” she beams. “Better than nice. _Solid_.”

There’s a fire in her gut that she wants to douse. The Snickers bar burns a hole in her pocket. “Liz,” she says slowly. “I’m not having sex with him. I don’t even know his name.”

Her roommate waves a hand and blows quick raspberry. She slips on her slippers and Maka makes sure to both push her way into the room and keep Liz herded inside. Hot RA stands in the doorway, on the cusp of beating feet out of the premise and sticking around to see the train wreck to fruition.

“It’s polite to ask, Maka,” Liz teases, then shoots their RA a particularly steamy look. “What’s your name?”

He swallows. “... Soul.”

“Well, _Soul_ ,” Liz drawls, ambling over and leaning one manicured hand against the doorway. He stiffens and watches the action with startled eyes and a twitch in his lip. “If you ever need to meet up with a _body_ , you know where to find Maka.”

She shuts the door and braves the Snickers aimed at her head with a hearty laugh.


End file.
